


Lux en Tenebris

by NorroenDyrd



Series: Amabilis Insania [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Almost Kiss, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attraction, Avalanches, Awkward Flirting, Battlefield, Budding Love, Cole (Dragon Age) Talks A Lot, Delirium, Demonic Possession, Demons, Despair Demons (Dragon Age), Dragon Age Quest: In Hushed Whispers, Dragon Age Quest: In Your Heart Shall Burn, F/M, Falling In Love, Flashbacks, Gen, Helpful Cole, Illusions, In the Fade, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Movie Reference, Post-In Your Heart Shall Burn, Rare Pairings, Regret, Romantic Friendship, Song Lyrics, Team Bonding, The Anchor (Dragon Age), The Breach (Dragon Age), The Fade, Wolf Pack, possible ooc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-06-04 05:50:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6643903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the destruction of Haven, Lavellan must find her way in the snowy mountains to catch up with the rest of the Inquisition. Unexpectedly, she is joined by a certain imprisoned magister, who escaped his cell with the help of an odd spirit boy...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

'And then,' Felix says enthusiastically, waving his fork through the air to trace some elaborate formula, 'And then, he goes up there, to the blackboard, and shows that the professor made a mistake in the very first equation - rendering the entire calculation completely wrong! Oh, you should have seen her face - that pompous Orlesian, getting it handed to her by an elven student!'  
  
'And you are the one who encouraged that boy to speak up,' Livia remarks with a gentle smile, as soon as her son has to pause for breath.  
  
Felix looks down at his plate, unable to conceal a grin.  
  
'Weeell... All I can say is, the support of your friends can do wonders! Blaise was the class hero for the remainder of the semester - and if I had some part to play in it... Well, it has been an honour! He is really brilliant; one day, he will become a star of the academic world, and maybe they will write about this incident in his biography...'  
  
All this excited chatter has apparently left him quite parched: he reaches out for the water pitcher, his reflection stretching across the polished silver surface. Alexius, who has been watching him with a warm feeling of contentment filling his chest like firelight fills a room, glances absently in the direction where Felix has turned... And feels his heart jolt, almost literally knocking against him stomach.  
  
His son's reflection has been replaced by that of someone completely different - a pale, straw-haired youth in a hat the likes of which Alexius has only seen on scarecrows. Whatever the explanation behind this, he is certain he is not going to like it. Most probably, this blonde fashion victim is a spy from the Magisterium - those blighters never did like his ideas for educational reforms... Well, the insolent youth will certainly regret interrupting their first family dinner of Felix's winter holidays!   
  
Alexius flexes his fingers, ready to cast a fire ball, and tilts his head, trying to signal Livia that there is an intruder lurking behind the dinner table... But in a flash, the youth's reflection vanishes, and another couple of seconds later, Alexius finds himself gaping blankly at the pitcher, unable to figure out why he is doing this. Did he see something? Hear something? He cannot quite remember.  
  
'Amatus?' Livia lays her hand on his. 'You seem distracted... What's wrong?'  
  
'You do look troubled - please don't deny it like you usually do,' Felix joins in, laying down his knife and fork and frowning in concern. 'I am home now, and I can help. Are those politicians breathing down your neck again? Or is it Dorian? If it's Dorian, I can talk to him...'  
  
'I - thank you for the concern, my boy...' Alexius mutters, a vague, hazy thought beginning to stir at the back of his head, making his left temple ache - like when one accidentally inhales some water while bathing. 'But it really is nothing serious... I just... I believe I had a bad dream...'  
  
'What sort of dream?' Livia straightens up in her seat. 'Please, Gereon, tell me - it could be a side effect of my apprentices' latest experiment with the Veil...'  
  
Alexius makes a dismissive gesture.  
  
'I am sure it's nothing - it so bizarre that frankly I don't know why I am giving this a second thought. I dreamt that I had joined some insane cult that wanted to bring Tevinter back to "former glory"... And then there was this time travel spell... And -'   
  
He shivers uncomfortably, overcome by a strong feeling that someone is watching him from behind his back. Looking slowly over his shoulder, Alexius sees a tall, lanky lad in most bizarre ragged garb and a hat shaped like mill wheel, hovering over the room's threshold. Why - why is he staring at him like that? What is his game?   
  
'It is not my game. It is yours'.  
  
That's odd... Judging by the distance between them, the boy's voice should not have sounded so loud and clear - unless he shouted. But he is not shouting; he is speaking in an even, calm tone, with a sort of melodious undercurrent... As if he is reciting a verse right into Alexius' ear.  
  
'A game you created all for yourself... Like the one you used to play with Felix when he was little. Eyes closed, lips tingling with subtle laughter; I do not need to look at him to see him - my darling boy, a gap between his milk teeth as he smiles, black locks curling in a halo around his head. He must fidgeting and snickering in excitement, certain I will never figure out which corner he has slipped into... Hide and seek, do not peek... You are playing hide and seek with yourself'.  
  
'What is the meaning of this?' Alexius asks, feeling blood rush to his face in choking rage. 'You are a blood mage, are you not? How dare you burst into my home and pry into my memories? Who sent - '  
  
'Who are you talking to, amatus?'  
  
Livia's voice makes Alexius turn back to the dinner table... And there he is again, that cursed vagabond, standing right behind his wife's chair, shaking his head from side to side like a mourner at a funeral! Apparently, neither Livia nor Felix can see him, or hear him: the ragged wretch circles around the table like a stray cat begging for leftovers - and not once does either Alexius' wife or his son display signs of being aware of the interloper's presence. A projection then? A personal apparition to... deliver some sort of a rambling message? He swears, if Dorian has been experimenting with magic while drunk..!  
  
'I... I have to deal with something private,' Alexius says stiffly, getting up from his seat. 'You can finish eating without me'.  
  
With that, he marches across the room, the ragged spectre floating before his eyes all the while - teasing him, luring him away from Livia and Felix, further and further away...  
  
His vision focused on the ever-shifting apparition, Alexius does not pay heed to his surroundings for quite some time. When he finally decides to slow down and recover his bearings, his chest is racked by that jolt again - this time, much harder, much more painful.  
  
They are no longer in his house - or in the surrounding garden. The ragged boy has led him into a desolate wasteland, dotted with jagged spires of emerald-tinted rock, with heavy scoils of green smoke slithering overhead. The Fade. Damn it all, they are in the Fade!  
  
' _You_ are in the Fade,' the boy corrects him, once again catching the flow of his thoughts in a most unsettling way. 'And I am in you... And also, around you. And... next to you? It's... It's hard to explain...'  
  
Cryptic speech patterns, affinity to thoughts and memories... A spirit. Why did he not see it sooner? He is in the Fade, talking to a spirit - which means that... that...  
  
'That dinner with my family...' Alexius says, glancing around him with an overpowering sensation of icy cold building up in his stomach. 'It was... It was never real, was it?'  
  
'No,' the boy says simply. 'It could have been, but it wasn't - you wanted it to be, so you hid yourself in a dream, and hid what was real, too, pretending that it was the dream, and not them...'  
  
'Livia...' Alexius groans, his hand travelling up his throbbing throat. 'Felix... They... They are gone... Despite everything I've tried, despite the depths I've sunk to... They are gone!'  
  
The last word turns into a barking outcry, as Alexius lunges at the spirit, his fingers ablaze with magefire.  
  
'You!' he wails, his mouth twisting into a snarl. 'You ruined everything!'  
  
He tries to shoot the spirit down with a charge of lightning, but it (he? Ah, what does it matter!) dodges the sizzling, bluish-purple blast, and meets Alexius' helpless glare with an intent, understanding look. This infuriates the magister even further.  
  
'Why did you have to show yourself?' he asks, pouring so much feeling into every word that by the end he feels completely drained. 'Why did you have to cast off the illusion? I - I was so happy! Felix was telling us stories about his studies at the university, and I was going to surprise him with his Satinalia gift after dinner... A sending crystal... very rare, very hard to procure... I wanted to give it to him so he could contact me any time he wanted while in Orlais... So we could talk, and share excitement over our research, and I... I could tell him how much I miss him...'  
  
'I came to help,' the spirit... boy explains hastily, catching Alexius as he is about to collapse to his knees. 'I didn't want to at first, because you hurt a lot of people, even if it was the never-you... But then I felt your own hurt, gripping, gnawing, all gnarled on the inside - and so I found you, where they forgot you. I don't like it when people get forgotten in dungeons'.  
  
'They would have come down to judge me eventually,' Alexius shrugs.   
  
The boy shakes his head.  
  
'They can't. Not any more. You think there is still Haven above you, but there's nothing left. Even the air is beginning to forget the smoke and the screams...'  
  
'The screams?' Alexius echoes, a heavy, dark thought beginning to swell within his mind like a malign growth. So, they came... The girl disrupted his plans, took the mages - but they still came. The Elder One still prevailed.  
  
The spirit's gaze grows distant, filling with a glassy blue glow.  
  
'Black wings slashing through the air; so much scorching red over the white, cold snow. Feet stumbling, running, slipping; hands, a shield from the glare of the flames. She came, she helped; arms small but strong, helping them stand, taking them to where they can breathe; pearly smile against a sooty face. She is truly blessed - Maker forgive me for all the times I called an elf a knife-ear. To the Chantry, everyone to the Chantry!.. The angry throbbing of the wound fades away for a moment, as a thought shines clear and bright in the dying man's mind. He remembers; he remembers the path, hidden, sheltered, winding out of the dark. She must have shown me - Andraste must have shown me!.. They leave along the path, hustling, hasty, too scared to think, to turn around, to count. Those who lead do try to count, as they guard and guide; but there are so many orders to give, so many people to think of all at once. The soldiers, the traders, the pilgrims, the clerics, the farmers, the workers, the wounded, the children... Nobody remembers the man in the dungeon, bound, broken, abandoned. Dorian would have remembered - but he is with her, in a whirlpool of fighting, facing a wall of merciless red. And by the time she tells him to run, to join the others, it will be too late'.  
  
Alexius runs his hand across his face, processing the spirit's half-incoherent account of what happened while he was rotting alive down here.  
  
'If I have deduced correctly,' he utters at length, 'The Elder One has destroyed the village, and while the intrepid leaders of the Inquisition were evacuating the survivors, they did not think to look in the dungeon? Fitting end, I suppose, being left for dead... Not the kind of judgement that the... Herald promised, but... fitting'.  
  
'It is not an end,' the spirit says firmly. 'It does not have to be if you try. There is a blanket of snow, shrouding everything above, soft and thick and downy, lulling the ruins to sleep. Thoughts are fast, much faster than snowfall: while we are here, talking, time does not pass. But when it begins to move again, the snow will press down on you, growing heavier and heavier, a perfect, stainless white tombstone, like the one over Livia's shrine. You do not have much air - the last precious droplets at the bottom of the flask, to feed the thirst in a desert. But if you use it well, you can escape - through the gap in the crumbled wall, then down, then up, up, into the mountains...'  
  
'Why should I?' Alexius asks bitterly, lowering himself onto a protruding chunk of rock. 'Why not just... succumb to the snow and go to sleep?'  
  
'Because this is what they would have wanted,' the spirit boy replies, his tone sincere and insistent. 'Livia, Felix... Yavanna'.  
  
'I don't know of any Yavanna!' the magister says sharply.  
  
The boy smiles.  
  
'That is her name. The Herald's. Yavanna of Clan Lavellan. Strong and happy, smiling and singing, always hoping, always getting up when she falls, and keeping others from falling, too. You liked it when she hugged you. You felt too numb to realize it at first, but then, you knew you liked it. Soft and soothing, a welcome warmth; lux en tenebris - a light in the dark. You thought about thanking her for it - but you can't thank her if you are dead'.  
  
Alexius looks at his bizarre ragged companion from beneath knitted eyebrows.  
  
'I can think of a number of my countrymen who would want to bind you just to make you talk their opponents into the most unthinkable things,' he says. 'Very well - I shall make my daring escape... But first, spirit, tell me one last thing: did... what did you say her name was? Did this elf from Clan Lavellan face the Elder One? Did...'  
  
'He did not get what he wanted,' the boy responds readily. 'I can show you if you like. And then - please wake up'.


	2. Chapter 2

Gradually, the scene changes: the colours shift and blend, and the various shades of oppressive, sickly green eventually turn into flaring crimson. The sky fills with leaden smoke, with outlines of charred building peeking through closer to the ground. The village of Haven is consumed by raging dragon fire - the first inkling of what is to become of the world as the Elder One's forces march forth, triumphant and relentless.   
  
Alexius lowers his head. The Venatori approached him when he was at his lowest, grasping at any chance to undo that one fateful day which left his whole life in shambles. And they gave him that chance - or seemed to, anyway. Everything he needed to perfect his time travel spell - all in exchange for completing one simple task. Finding the elf that had dared to disrupt the Elder One's plans, and erasing her from existence, so that she would not be there when the Venatori set out to resurrect Tevinter from its ashes.  
  
Yes - that promise seemed tempting as well. Changing Tevinter, making it worthy of the ancestors that charted the roads spanning half of the known world, built temples and palaces that still draw sighs of awe, and honed a language that shaped the many tongues of today's Thedosian nations... Was that not what Alexius himself strove for, once, when his world was not yet empty and devoid of warmth? Was that not what he talked about, all the way into predawn hours, sitting across the table from his apprentice, the brandy and the promise of a better future making him feel light-headed and boyishly giddy? Was that not why he, a scholar with no political ambition, brought himself to put on his best robes and take the floor at the Magisterium? Was that not why he earned the ire of many noble houses, who detested his suggestion to cut the funding for military campaigns on Seheron, and open the doors of the country's best schools to everyone, including (the horror!) the Soporati? Was that not why Felix's face glowed with pride every time when he introduced himself as the son of Gereon Alexius?..  
  
He was so confident that what he was doing was right, for Tevinter, for his son, for his own conscience... He was so ready to do the Elder One's bidding, to round up the southern mages for him, to face the so-called 'Herald of Andraste' and hurl her into the depths of time. But now, as the boy in the oversized hat wields the power of the Fade to recreate the chaos sown by the Elder One - now all he can do is watch with a heavy heart, slowly beginning to regret agreeing to this.  
  
But then, just when Alexius has half a mind to say he has seen enough, they appear. A small party of four, led by the strange little blue-eyed elf who defeated him and then apologized. Standing by her side, is a tall woman in full armour, with a recent scar running across her face. Alexius remembers her: a Seeker from the southern Chantry, one of the Inquisition's top commanders, and owner of the most debilitating glare ever to scorch the face of a shackled prisoner. She is followed by a small, lithe elf, a female like the Herald, with a head of messy blonde hair and her tongue stuck out between her teeth as she adjusts the aim of her bow. And finally, there is Dorian, his mage's staff clasped tightly in his hand and his head held up high (if Alexius was in the mood for gambling, he would have bet that the boy is secretly wondering  whether his profile looks impressive enough against the glow of the distant fires).  
  
Together, they head towards a large wooden construct, half-sunk in the snow. A trebuchet - Alexius has seen schematics for similar siege machines (only rather more advanced, he dares to say) lying around the offices of the magisters he would visit during his (ultimately fruitless) quest to draw their attention to education instead of the squabble with the Qunari.  
  
The shadow play of the Fade is not accompanied by sound; but Alexius can still get a fairly good idea of what is going on, just by watching the motley team's interactions. The Herald climbs onto the wooden platform at the base of the trebuchet and places one hand on the crank that apparently controls the aiming; then, she waves her other hand at her companions, most likely telling them to guard her back. Dorian, of course, has to respond with a mock bow, which makes the Seeker roll up her eyes in exasperation. As soon as the three teammates take position, the fence around the platform comes crushing down like an overflowing dam, setting forth a torrent of red.  The Templars, once the keepers of law and order in the South, now members of the Elder One's glorious legion. In his... line of work, Alexius did not come into close contact with them - though perhaps that would have changed in the dark future. And now, the vision of the battle allows him to behold the true power of corrupted lyrium.  
  
The large, bulky figures that surround the trebuchet, with weapons bared and heads bowed down like those of charging bulls; most of them barely have any humanity left in their features. Like countless smaller reflections of the Elder One, they have been maimed by sharp crystals bursting from underneath their skin, their pulsing glow resembling a throbbing jet of blood that shoots out of an open wound. With a burning, feral look in their eyes, which are almost lost in a net of swollen red veins, they claw at the platform, attempting to pull the Herald away from the crank - but they are stopped by a burst of blinding pale-blue light, which erupts from Dorian's staff. When the light rolls back, like a wave of ebbing tide, it leaves behind a row of grotesque, twisted statues, carved out of solid ice. Ah, the Winter's Grasp spell... Quite in spite of himself, Alexius feels his lips part in a half a smile. Clever boy...  
  
With the Templars shackled by Dorian's frost magic, the two women take their queue to act. The Seeker rips through the enemy ranks like a gust of wind, slamming her shield into each frozen Templar till broad, dark-blue cracks begin to swell in the inner layer of ice. Whenever this happens, the wild-haired archer draws her bow string, one shoulder lifted till it presses into her ear and one eye squinting comically - and releases the arrow with surprisingly flawless precision, so that it sinks into the most vulnerable spot in the cracking ice, causing an explosion of a myriad glittering shards. All this while, the Herald clings on to the crank, pressing down at it with all the weight of her tiny elven body, her expression strained yet... excited for some reason. Slowly, the unwieldy machine turns in the direction she has set, pointing somewhere at the mist-shrouded mountain slope in the distance. If the trebuchet fires, it will set off an avalanche... Pure force of nature, enough to stop even the Elder One and his dragon. That girl certainly does not think small. Maybe - maybe she does have it in her to finish what she started.  
  
After the trebuchet has been perfectly aligned, the Herald leaps off the platform and joins the fray - for the Templars keep coming, like... like ever so many lyrium-tainted cockroaches, to be quite frank (the servants of the Elder One would probably have not approved of this turn of phrase, but after everything that has occurred, Alexius cannot really bring himself to care). The little elf darts from one of the advancing brutes to the other, her daggers finding the gaps in the armour with a degree of finesse that (once again, to be quite frank) leaves the magister rather impressed. What is far more astounding, however, is the look on her face just before she lands the lethal blow. Alexius is able to see it quite clearly, as the Fade's projection around him keeps changing, allowing for different angles and points of view. Before the steel pierces the tainted flesh, before dark blood trickles down its sharp, merciless edge - the elf gazes into her adversary's eyes, and her expression is filled with a kind of gentle grief that one could have expected from a Chantry Sister absolving the sins of a dying penitent. It is more than evident to Alexius that she mourns every Templar she has to slay, and pities the extent to which they have been warped by their crimson snare.  
  
Did she look the same way at him, Alexius wonders - when, in that dark year that never came to pass, she had to strike him down? Or did she look at him in blank, numb terror, like she does when the Templars part ranks to make way for their leader, a giant behemoth of a creature, covered from head to foot in a layer of hard, lumpy pieces of red lyrium? The final stages of corruption are too monstrous, too dehumanizing even for her. When the red colossus staggers forward, making gulleys in the snowy ground with the sharp ends of its oversized, dragging limbs, the pity and sadness in the elf's eyes is replaced by dread... And by disbelief, too - as if she is asking herself how someone could let so much darkness into their body and soul. Yes, Alexius tells himself bitterly, this is surely how she looked at him in the dark future, amidst all the pain and destruction he had wrought. As a monster.  
  
The ground must have shaken with a powerful rumble under the behemoth's heavy footfalls - for the Herald, still paralyzed by fear, suddenly loses balance and drops awkwardly to her knees, the top of her head dangerously exposed to the swings of the red monstrosity's arms. Forgetting for a moment that he is in the Fade, and that what he is witnessing is but a memory, Alexius reaches forward and cries out in warning - and then, immediately draws back, chastising himself under his breath. Well, that was foolish! But quite in his character, he supposes - trying to change things that are beyond his grasp...  
  
Thankfully (that is strange: why would he care enough to be thankful?) this particular part of the memory has a happy ending. Just in the nick of time, as the behemoth is about to pin the Herald to the ground, Dorian darts in between the creature and the elf - and, grabbing her by the hand, propels himself to the other side of the battlefield with lightning speed.  Another familiar spell - Fade Step. One of the first useful little tricks that Alexius taught the boy; the lesson that marked the start of their experiments with magical travel through space and time. Those were simpler, happier days...  
  
Having been carried to safety, the Herald first shakes Dorian's hand, beaming with gratitude (the boy pretends to take it for granted, rolling up his eyes and giving a nonchalant twirl to that moustache of his - but Alexius knows him too well to trust that look on his face). Then, she gropes around her belt, which has all manner of pouches, lockpicks and potion bottles strapped to it - and selects a small, greenish jar, which seems to contain something fluttering, slightly shimmering... and alive. Narrowing her eyes and drawing back her arm, the elf takes aim - and hurls the flask right at the behemoth, which is busy trying to pound the stalwart Seeker into dust. The glass breaks against the solid mass of red crystal - and in an instant, the air is filled with a large cloud of... insects of some sort, which circle around the lyrium giant, trying to crawl into the deep, narrow gaps between the red spikes that adorn its chest and shoulders, and to sting at the tiny slivers of human flesh that may still remain.  
  
Alexius is rather skeptical in regard to whether or not this actually took place - after all, memories in the Fade can easily be distorted and manipulated. But, real or not, the stinging swarm does seem to achieve its purpose: the colossus becomes disoriented and sways clumsily from side to side, like some sort of mechanical contraption that is about to wind down. This gives the four comrades in arms ample opportunity to finish it off. They assault it, not backing down for a moment: the Seeker with her blade, the blonde elf with her arrows, the Herald with her daggers, and Dorian with his magic - until there is nothing left but a misshapen pile of lyrium shards. And then, there it comes again - that look on the Herald's face, as she glances at the shattered behemoth, her head bowed down as if to pay her respects. What is she thinking? The reflections of the Fade do not say... Maybe... Could she... Could she be considering that... in the heart of every monster there is still a man?  
  
The sky darkens, and the embers of the burned-down houses flare up anew. The Herald straightens up, frowning; then, looks intently at her companions, and points decisively somewhere at the horizon, away from herself. The others understand; one by one, they approach her, and she gives each of them a long, tight embrace, like the one she startled Alexius with in his prison cell. This leaves them with different reactions. The blonde elf bursts into what must have been a very loud giggling fit, complete with snorts and all, and aimed to conceal unmistakable tearful glint in her eyes. The Seeker looks flustered and stiff, but as she gives the Herald one last farewell glance, her eyes are warm with fondness, as if she were looking upon a cherished, if somewhat foolhardy, younger sibling. And Dorian seems slightly confused - for which Alexius can hardly blame him: these announced hugs are rather hard to process with the mind of someone brought up in Tevinter. Side by side, the three companions set off toward the hazy outline of the Chantry - leaving the Herald alone to face what is to come.


	3. Chapter 3

And there it is. That final moment. The one that the spirit boy promised to show Alexius. The confrontation between the Herald and the Elder One. The magister is certain that this is what he will see next - and, despite the boy's reassurance that the encounter will not end in his former master's favour, he still feels uneasy, an invisible nest of serpents stirring in the pit of his stomach.  
  
The girl stands firm, a tiny black silhouette traced against the blaze and the smoke, bracing herself to face the creatures that laid waste to her Inquisition's home. And they do not take too long to arrive - the Elder One and the black dragon, following closely in his footsteps, all of its destructive might tamed and bound to its master's will... Something that never failed to impress the Venatori, bedazzling them with memories of the Old Gods.  
  
The winged beast that was unleashed upon Haven now stares at the village's protector, its eyes glinting coldly, its hard, steel-like claws digging into the ground, its narrow nostrils gushing out clouds of vapour that billow around the elf's face. All of a sudden, Alexius is reminded of an illustration in a typical southern storybook: he was interested in folklore at one time... when Felix was growing up, and he had to constantly hunt for new stories to entertain an inquisitive boy with a vivacious imagination. As it turned out, the southerners had far less appreciation for the majesty of the dragons, reducing their role to that of big lumbering creatures that swooped down on settlements and stole livestock, only to be slain by the local hero, who was then rewarded by living happily ever after. A far less glamorous depiction than the ones found in Tevene myths - but Felix liked these stories well enough; the word 'swoop' made him giggle.   
  
As Alexius forcibly tears himself away from his own visions of a past long, long gone, and returns that the memory of burning Haven, it becomes apparent that the storybook standoff between the heroine and the beast is not destined to come to pass. With a commanding gesture, the Elder One makes the dragon draw back, and approaches the elf on his own.  
  
In his hand, the Elder One carries the orb that, as far as Alexius was given to understand, is the key element of his plan to walk, once again, in the Black City, and rekindle the forgotten glory of the Imperium. The Anchor, that tiny bit of the Fade that the blue-eyed elf now carries in the flesh of her palm, was to have been his. But the elf took it - and for that, as Alexius knows all too well, she needs to be destroyed... This was supposed to be his job, and he tried his utmost to see it through, both in the past and, apparently, in that lost future - and yet... And yet, seeing the one who ordered him to remove an inkling of her presence from the very flow of time, Alexius finds himself wishing, for a reason he cannot quite put into words (Disillusionment? Repentance? Weariness of it all?) for this would-be god to fail just as he, mere mortal, once did. The spirit boy told him that the Elder One would not get what he wanted - and he was right, so right in assuming that the magister would be anxious to see this with his own eyes.  
  
Towering over the elf like an ominous shadow, the Elder One slowly lifts the orb to eye level - and a dazzling, pulsing thread of light connects it to the Anchor. The elf staggers, a soundless scream of pain twisting her mouth, while the ancient shadow pulls and pulls at the thread, teeth bared in an angry snarl. It seems that, at any moment, the throbbing, coiling beam would act like a grappling hook, tearing the Anchor out of the Herald's hand - but that moment never comes. Instead, ripping the air around it apart like a thunderbolt, the thread snaps; enraged, the Elder One grabs the Herald by the wrist, effortlessly lifting her small, wriggling self off the ground, and glares straight into her face.  
  
The Anchor, it seems, is permanent. Somewhere in the far corner of Alexius' mind, the scholar within him wonders if closing so many Rifts has strengthened the bond between the mark of the Fade and the woman that bears it, moulding them into one... But regardless, it is too late now. With the time magic having failed, the chance to return to the original course of the Elder One's plan has irrevocably slipped away.  
  
The Elder One speaks, his Taint-touched face lit up with the same ferocious glow that once made Alexius freeze in awe, his heart contracting in a heady mixture of fear and hope. He cannot hear the words now, but he can guess their meaning. The same old tale, the same feverish dream of rallying all mages of Tevinter to found a new Empire, bright and beautiful like the glow of the giant sun disk, rising out of the dark sea. He heard it all many times before; he repeated it - and, desperate to save Felix, to bring back Livia, he was ready to believe it.   
  
And now it is the girl who is listening to the Elder One's promise of the future - the child of the people that his empire once crushed. And yet again, her expression is soft and wistful, and slightly questioning. Instead of blindly cursing at her foe, she is trying to understand him... Or so Alexius interprets the living memory that unfolds before his eyes. He could be wrong, that goes without saying - but if he is right... Well, that is certainly a novel experience, having an enemy like her.  
  
The Elder One, however, seems to have little patience for the elf that is dangling in his grasp, the soles of her boots not even close to scraping the scorched earth, and is studying his warped features like a concerned friend studies the symptoms of another's illness. With a spit-like exclamation, he tosses her aside, making her hit her head against the base of the trebuchet.  
  
Alexius cringes involuntarily at the sight; that... cannot have been painless. Still, somehow, perhaps mustering the very last droplets of strength, the girl gets up, straining to straighten her wobbly legs and blinking off the trickle of blood that has begun to ooze from the gash across her forehead right into her eyes.   
  
As fate would have it, the rope that holds back the trebuchet's projectile is just a grasp away from the quivering fingers of her lowered hand - pulled taut and ready to be cut. The girl, dazed and barely capable of standing up though she is, still notices that, and does not lose a single precious moment.  
  
Far over the mountain ridge, a signal fire shoots into the darkened sky; this has to mean that the escaping villagers have made their way to safety (forgetting all about the lone prisoner down below). As soon as this happens, out comes one of the elf's daggers (the same one, perhaps, that she used to cut down him, Alexius, when his madness had gone too far). The blade slices at the rope; it frays, thread by thread, and presently tears in two, releasing the load of the trebuchet.  
  
The Elder One snarls in helpless rage, struck by the realization of his own defeat. His dragon lets out an inaudible roar and, closing its claws around its master, soars into the air to escape the moving wall of snow that is already rushing down the mountain slope, going faster and faster and faster, uprooting trees and swallowing buildings as if they were pebbles, submerged beneath a tidal wave. The unstoppable, primal force of the avalanche consumes everything that stands in its way. Soon, Alexius' entire field of view is filled with blinding, boundless, never -ending whiteness. He blinks, his head swimming and his eyes growing foggy - and then, wakes up.  
  
He is still lying on the floor of his cell, where he sank into heavy, vision-filled sleep, what seems like an eternity ago - alone, with not a trace of his oddly dressed companion in sight. The air around him is so icy that he feels numb from head to toe, his tattered robes no longer providing a decent protection from the piercing cold; his head feels groggy, and no matter how hard he shakes it, he cannot bet rid of the unpleasant impression that his ears are stuffed with cotton wool. The spirit boy was not exaggerating when he said Alexius would soon be running out of air. His limbs floppy like a rag doll's, his movements as awkward and lacking in coordination as those of a drunkard, the magister pulls himself to his feet, trying and failing to smirk, as he remembers the girl doing the same when her head was almost cracked open against that trebuchet. It is hard to concentrate, what with the thunderous pounding filling his skull, but he tries his best. The cell door has been left ajar - by whom, he cannot say. If someone from the Inquisition had come down here to unlock it, they would have likely looked inside and said or done something that would have drawn his attention. Perhaps it was the spirit boy?.. Well, it does not really matter who open the door for him, does it, if he has barely enough air to drag himself beyond it?  
  
Outside the cell, the entire dungeon is filled with rubble - mostly stones from the walls that must have crumbled when the avalanche hit the building. And rising over the piles of debris, is a massive block of caked snow. Alexius looks over it dully, a stifling feeling beginning to grip his chest. There is no way he could possibly move that - and if he tried to light a fire, it would eat away the last few breaths of air he has left. Perhaps he should... just... return to his original plan?... Just... lie down... and see that beautiful, beautiful dream... The one that he was hoping to recreate in service of the Elder One... The one where Livia was still alive, and Felix was back to his... usual self... His beloved wife... His little boy... By his side... A family again...  
  
But - but if he did that... The cold and the suffocation would snuff out the life out of him. He would be gone from this world - and he would not be able to see the culmination of the struggle between his former master and this stubbornly compassionate elf who keeps defying him at every turn. He was so certain that the Elder One would prevail - but after seeing that vision of Haven... And then, if the elf lived through the avalanche, there is this embrace matter to settle, too...  
  
Smiling dazedly to himself, he sways forward - and, extending his hands in front of him, commands his dimming mind to focus on one last spell... which, ironically, is called Mind Blast. A powerful burst of mental energy, wielded to stagger opponents - and to shatter obstacles.  
  
The chances that it might work are very slim - but it does work. Alexius is already half-slipping into unconsciousness when the nigh-on airless space around him distorts and ripples, invisible circles of energy rushing away from him, till they hit the snowy wall, and then smash right through it, clearing the path.  
  
Beyond the gaping hole in the ruined wall of his prison, lies a long, cavernous tunnel, its farther end lost beyond a pall of bluish mist. A most lovely gift from the previous owners of Haven.  
  
Perhaps it is still connected to some ancient ventilation shaft, which has, miraculously, not been clogged up with snow; or perhaps, its ceiling has caved in at some point, creating an opening that leads to the surface... Either way, the tunnel is filled with air. Cold, refreshing, sweet air, which fills Alexius burning lungs, subduing the painful sensation that made him think that his chest and throat was filling up with a single enormous blood clot.   
  
After he has finished relishing in the delightful process of breathing, the former prisoner of the Inquisition spreads his shoulders, nods determinedly to himself, and steps forth into the unknown.


	4. Chapter 4

Alexius' second guess about the source of air in the tunnel proves to be correct. After a while of half-mindless stumbling forward, he comes across a section of the passage that lies right beneath an opening in the ceiling. It could have been wider before the avalanche - but now all that remains is a narrow crack, with gusts of snowy powder blowing through it. Lying beneath it, is something that Alexius, his perception still slightly dulled after almost suffocating, first mistakes for a large bit of rubble. When he stumbles closer, however, he realizes that the odd dark object in his path is actually a person. To be absolutely precise, it is the Herald, lying on her side with one leg twisted unnaturally underneath her body. So - so that is where the unstoppable white stream carried her after she stopped the Elder One.  Alexius can even catch a glimpse of the smear of caked blood that crosses her forehead, right in the place where she hit the trebuchet in that memory.  
  
For a terrifying moment, he feels all of his newfound determination to keep moving forward drain away from him, leaving him in the same despondent state that he was in when the elf came to visit him in his cell. If she... If she is dead, the Elder One will continue down his path - and all the mistakes Alexius made while in his service will remain unfixed... And Felix - Felix will probably die hating him, his father, for what he had helped unleash.   
  
The Herald groans faintly; her eyes are still closed, but the fingers of her left hand, the one marked by the Anchor, twitch - just a little, but enough to indicate that she is still alive. Commanding himself to gather his wits, Alexius kneels next to the elf - just like she knelt next to him during her fumbling apology - and hovers his hand over her scalp, a tiny orb of blue glow swelling around each of his fingertips. The dark-red gash dissolves, wiped off by magic as if by a sponge; but the magister keeps casting his healing spell: after a fall like that, it is highly unlikely that the girl got away with just a flesh wound. Best make the spell last, to negate the possible concussion symptoms. Then, he will need to see to her leg; with the right spell, the broken bone would be fairly easy to mend. If only all wounds could just be... washed away with a little magical blue glow...  
  
The elf's eyelids flutter and then slide open, revealing dim, unfocused eyes. She stares at Alexius long and hard before she finally manages to process who this (doubtlessly, blurry and floating) face belongs to.  
  
'Why... Why did they put me in prison?' she asks thickly.  
  
The magister looks back at her with a small, wry smile.  
  
'Have I come to be so firmly associated with my dismal cell?' he says. 'No, you are not in prison; neither am I. As a matter of fact, I have escaped'.  
  
'Good for you,' the elf mouths, making a wrinkly grimace as the light of Alexius' spell gets into her eyes. 'I was worried you had lost the will... Wait a moment!'   
  
Her eyes widen into two utterly shocked blue orbs; she attempts to flop her limp body into something resembling an upright pose, and then exhales sharply as she disturbs her injured leg.  
  
'Wait - does this mean they left you behind?! You - you could have died! I am going to have a good long talk with Cullen and Cassandra about this! They should know better than abandon a friend... Gaaaah, my leg hurts!'  
  
'That's because it is broken,' Alexius says, with a slight hint of impatience in his voice. 'I will get to it when I am finished here. Now if you please stop moving: in addition to your fractured bone, you may have a concussion...'  
  
'A concu-what now?' the elf mumbles, with a slow blink.  
  
'A concussion,' Alexius explains, with a practiced intonation of someone who is used to teaching. 'It's a healer's term. Comes from the Tevene concutere, or to shake. It means that your brains have rattled around in your skull. A condition like this can be very damaging, but yours is not too severe, as far as I - '  
  
He cuts himself short, his eyes lingering on the elf's face in disbelief.  
  
'I must have surely misheard you, Herald - you could not have just referred to me as a friend, could you? Unless "friend" is the word they use in the South to describe someone that tried to prevent your very birth...'  
  
The elf smiles. The healing spell must have started to take effect, for her eyes now have a bright, slightly mischievous spark dancing in them.  
  
'I am not bothered by that!' she chirps. 'Well, maybe I am - but that hasn't stopped me before! I am bothered by Madame Vivienne's opinions on mage freedom - but she is still my friend. I am bothered by the rude noises Sera makes when I try to tell her stories about the Dalish - but she is still my friend. I am bothered by the things Bull has shared with me about the Ben-Hassrath and the re-educators - but he is still my friend. I am bothered by how Segritt the merchant isn't nice to people who are nice to him - but he is still my friend... even though he should probably never learn about it, or he'd use it as an excuse to raise his prices even higher.  I was bothered by Chancellor Roderick thinking I was the villain behind all of this - but he is still my friend... the poor stubborn old fuddy-duddy. Thing is... For me, a friend is anyone who is not my enemy. And like I said before, we needn't have been enemies. We still don't need to'.  
  
'And I suppose I should rejoice and treasure the friendship of the mighty Herald of Andraste?' Alexius remarks with dry sarcasm, moving on to cast the soothing blue magic on the elf's leg. He turns his head away as he speaks, mostly to focus all his attention on the spell - but also because he is not quite certain what to do with his nagging urge to smile.  
  
'You can take it or leave it,' she says amiably. 'But I will keep treating you as a friend. Because this is the least everyone deserves'.  
  
They spend the next few moments in silence, Alexius deep in thought, and the elf trying to crane her neck to watch the movements of his hands. After a certain while, the magister stops the flow of his healing magic and, with a curt nod, instructs the elf to move her leg. She obeys, dragging it slowly across the floor from the position it was in; then, gaining more confidence, she bends her leg in the knee - and giggles in delight.  
  
'Oh my! I did not know you were such an amazing healer!'  
  
'It was not my primary area of expertise,' Alexius responds, getting to his feet and extending his hand to help the elf follow suit. 'But I had to study healing magic quite intently after... after my son...'  
  
His jaw tightens, and he leaves the sentence unfinished.  
  
'Oh,' the elf's face falls. 'I... I am sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you'.  
  
She has already pulled herself up from the ground, but Alexius' hand is still in hers; as she speaks, she squeezes his fingers gently. This makes him start, and jerk his hand away hastily.  
  
'We must keep moving,' he says brusquely, turning in the direction opposite to the one that he came from. 'Lest this encroaching cold gets to us'.  
  
The elf smiles sheepishly, and sets off trotting in the magister's wake.  
  
'Are your hands all right?' she asks. 'I mean, hands and feet suffer the most from frostbite, right? I remember you had those fancy Tevinter gloves on when we first met, but - '  
  
Alexius looks down at his hands, which are wrapped in slivers of ragged cloth, and curls his lips in distaste.  
  
'Your valiant agents confiscated my gloves shortly after I was... apprehended. They thought the metal spikes could be used as a weapon or a lockpick. I was then given these, uh, mittens to wear instead'.  
  
The elf raises her eyebrows.  
  
'So that is how they followed Josephine's and mine instruction to make sure you weren't too cold! Well, that won't do, now will it? When we catch up with the others, I will make sure you receive a nice bundle of warm clothes! And if they have saved enough supplies, I will ask Blackwall to make some of that chowder with herbs and things! Extra-piping-hot, with steam rising from it! Mmmm, delicious! I tell you, that man can turn almost anything into an absolutely mouthwatering meal! I guess this comes from living in the wilderness for so long - some of my clan mates are pretty skilled cooks as well, even though they don't usually have much to work with...'  
  
She chatters on and on, probably trying to smooth over the tension that arose when their conversation led up to a memory of Felix. Alexius does not stop her - in fact, as he remarks to himself in some surprise, he finds the flow of her voice quite pleasant.  
  
The passage, which was quite spacious to begin with, widens even further, slowly merging with a round natural cavern, with layers of dark-blue ice coating its falls, and a whole forest of icicles and stalactites flourishing on its vault-like roof.  
  
'Whoaaah, that is beautiful...' the elf murmurs, seeming to enjoy the echoing sound her voice makes.   
  
'Quite,' Alexius agrees, not too enthusiastically. 'That, however, is arguably less beautiful'.  
  
With these words, he points forward, as the bluish light filling the passage dims, and the resulting murk condenses into several large, billowy clots, which hover above the cavern floor. After the elf and the magister make a few more steps forward, the clots of darkness slowly acquire a more definite shape: they now begin to resemble ragged figures, with broad hoods, and bare, desiccated hands and feet peeking from underneath their long grey garments. Apparently becoming aware of the two mortals' presence, the apparitions turn their heads in unison, giving a long, almost palpable stare out of the empty black spaces underneath their hoods. Then, they scream.  
  
The sound is loud and piercing, as though there were thousands of fragments of shattered glass, whizzing through the air at an unimaginable speed, sinking into the two mortals' ears, making them and bleed, and then travelling deeper and deeper inside their skulls, filling everything in their wake with a lasting throb of pain.   
  
The elf attempts to overcome the petrifying force of the scream seconds before the magister. He is still readying a ball of mage fire in his palm, intending to throw it into the creatures' midst, when she leaps in front of him, searing tongues of green flame bursting out of her left palm, and yells at the top of her lungs (almost drowning out the shrieking apparitions),  
  
'Don't you dare touch him! He has had enough of you lot!'  
  
Before she can as much as catch her breath, the Anchor erupts in a tremendous blast of green light, knocking her back. Flooding the cavern like the river of snow flooded Haven, the light rushes towards the ragged shades - and when it touches them, they throw up their skeletal arms in an almost comical expression of helplessness and defeat, and then dissolve into flakes of greyish ash, which begin to slowly float down to the cavern floor and disappear before they can touch the ground. The blinding light fades away, leaving Alexius to blink in confusion and ruminate over the fact that the elf has been thrown by the impact directly into his arms.  
  
After a good portion of the said ruminating, he finally finds it in himself to grab the girl by the shoulders and push her an arm's length away.  
  
' _Puella stulta!_ What was that stunt supposed to be?' he demands. 'A ploy to negate the healing spell I cast to rid you of your injuries?'  
  
The elf looks at him, the size and blueness of her eyes appearing to increase substantially.  
  
'You did see that those were despair demons, right?' she asks. 'I - I mean... Not that I am hinting that you have ever summoned demons...'  
  
'Contrary to the stereotype, I prefer to practice my magic without preternatural help,' Alexius says dryly. 'But I do know how to tell apart various demons, yes. What are you trying to say, exactly?'  
  
'I have seen what despair did to you in the dark future,' she replies, her gaze sincere and still filled with... quite disarming blueness. 'I didn't wanna risk it happening again'.  
  
'Because my despair destroyed the world?' Alexius asks, frowning.  
  
'Because your despair destroyed _you_ ,' she says quietly. 'Did you know why Dorian never visited you in your cell? He wanted to, many times - but he always stopped himself. He would try to laugh it off, saying that he had more important things to do, like mingling with the crowd and getting admired for his dashing looks... But I knew he was not telling the truth. Of all the people who were there, only he and I remember what you... what kind of person we had to fight. I think Dorian is still afraid of seeing that person again'.  
  
'And you... are not?' Alexius mouths.  
  
Her lips part in a smile.  
  
'I think I am too. But being afraid of something and still doing it is sort of part of my job, right?'.  
  
She falls silent, and then clears her throat.  
  
'Right! I think I see an opening at the end of that passage! Falon'Din willing, we will climb out of here in no time!'  
  
She runs forward a few paces; Alexius calls out after her.  
  
'Falon'Din? I heard you use that name before; when you... swore not to let me die'.  
  
She beams at him over her shoulder.  
  
'Oh, goodness - you remember! Not every human bothers to remember elven words... not every elf, either. Falon'Din is one of the Creators; our elders teach that he leads the spirits of the dead to a safer place. Some in my clan also pray to him when they want guidance on a difficult journey... But who is to say that is his... actual... uh, job, so to speak... So much lore about the Creators has been lost...'  
  
She blinks rapidly and hurries to add,  
  
'Oh, here I go again! I was not trying to take a jab at your people!'  
  
'Why not?' the magister asks, his tone both sarcastic and bitter. 'As Dorian so aptly put it, everyone thinks us a villainous cliché... Surely, the Dalish would be the first to bring up our past... and our present'.  
  
'My mother would,' the elf agrees. 'Oh, does she hate the _shemlen!_ Me, though - I got so tired of listening how evil you all are for twenty-odd years that I think I wouldn't hate you if I tried! Well, maybe if I see you or Dorian stomping on the dead bodies of elven slaves, I will get upset... But when I first see a human, Tevinter or no, my thoughts are far from "Hiss, kill it with fire!"  
  
She illustrates her last phrase with an exaggerated imitation of an angry cat - with so much over-the-top eye-bulging and teeth-baring that Alexius once again cannot resist an oncoming smile.  
  
'I am rather curious,' he confesses, walking behind the elf as she continues to make her way towards the surface. 'What _were_ your thoughts when you first saw me?'  
  
'Oh', she says, turning away from him, the tips of her ears now tinted a soft shade of pink. 'Oh - actually... I thought, "It's not surprising someone this handsome talked Fiona into this weird alliance!".  
  
She speeds up again, and as Alexius follows behind, he shakes his head and chides himself for not using a more powerful healing spell. That brain of hers is clearly still rattling. And – and it feels like his is as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Puella stulta' translates from 'Tevene' (Latin, actually) as 'foolish girl'.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like any good Andrastian tale, this one features a random musical number. The lyrics used come from Shakira's Try Everything, which I thought would be a fitting song for this Lavellan's personality. Though, of course, it's a little bit too modern for the Medieval setting, but maybe a slower, more instrumental version of it is feasible. ^^

They traverse the rest of the cavern in silence, both trying very hard to pretend that the remark about Alexius being handsome never escaped the Herald's lips. Their eyes are fixed on the light ahead, and their gait grows ever faster as this welcoming beacon swells in size. Thus, they do not have to walk for very long before the passage takes a steep turn upwards, and they finally emerge out of a gaping opening in the mountainside. The so eagerly awaited surface greets them with a literal slap in the face, hurtling a generous helping of wet snowflakes into their eyes and mouths.  
  
'Splendid,' the magister mutters, attempting to make sense of the milky mess that swirls and boils in front of them. 'And I thought the dungeons were cold and dreary!'  
  
The elf grins.  
  
'You look just like Dorian when we were climbing rocks along the Storm Coast and this huge wave came slamming down and showered him in icy water! The squishy grimace he made was priceless!'  
  
'A squishy grimace would be most insulting to my dignity,' Alexius responds, recollecting the quips he exchanged with the elf in Redcliffe Castle... before he opened a giant time vortex, and what happened... happened. 'We cannot have that!'  
  
As he finishes speaking, he snaps his fingers, and a tiny golden spark rises out of his grasp, dancing through the air and washing his face in soft, warm glow.  
  
'That is barely adequate, I know, but at least it is a source of light and heat... somewhat,' he explains. 'All that remains is this tiny, insignificant matter of locating a path'.  
  
'Riiight...' the Herald says, swerving her head around. 'Cullen's plan was to lead everyone into the mountains above the tree line... So I guess a good start would be, er... To find some trees?'  
  
She looks around again, her hair blowing into her eyes, and then points at a dark, fuzzy line trailing along the horizon somewhere far ahead of them.  
  
'Look! This seems to be a forest! We can try to get there... Maybe see if the Inquisition left behind a trace - like a campfire or something? At worst, we will find some firewood and a shelter for the night... Oooh, and I can also climb one of the taller trees and look around! I loved doing that when I travelled with my clan! It's an incredible feeling: the rough bark of the branch brushing against my fingers, the wind blowing in my face, and the whole world spreading far and wide at my feet... So much to explore and to discover; so much to see and to feel...'  
  
She coughs apologetically and falls silent; Alexius is not quite certain whether he appreciates the pause in her rambling or not. On the one hand, it is rather refreshing, to listen to someone so youthful and so enamored with this world - but on the other, as he catches sight of the dreamy look on the Herald's face, he cannot help but dwell on those he once knew. Those who felt the same way; who, like the elf trudging through the snow by his side, used to be so full of vivacious energy, of hope and light... and then faded away into darkness, from which there is no return. Those like Felix... or his own, younger self.  
  
A distraction from these despondent, oppressively heavy thoughts cannot come too soon. The elf falters on the spot, her feet sinking into the deep, creaking snow; in an awkward attempt to pull herself free, she sways to the side and loses balance, rolling down a small, powdery slope. The magister tries his best to clamber after her, grinding his teeth in order not to curse at this stubborn white stuff that is cold and wet and hard as stone and sticky like dough all at the same time.  
  
When, after what feels like a century of crawling forward, he reaches the spot where the elf landed, he finds her kneeling in the snow, busily digging something out, her hands darting back and forth like the paws of an excited pup.  
  
'What - ' Alexius cringes when his voice turns into an almost noiseless wheeze. Is he going to come down with some vulgar malady, complete with coughing and sneezing and swollen, tearful slits for eyes? Now that is a punishment for his crimes that he has not foreseen.  
  
'What have you found?'  
  
'It's a cart wheel!' the elf declares cheerfully. 'The caravan must have passed through here! We have to be on the right track!'  
  
'Hurrah for us,' Alexius says monotonously, focusing on his floating flame orb to make it a little bit brighter... and warmer. It is going to take much more magical energy to make them both last through this dreary trek if the girl insists on rolling around in the snow like that. Really, she is starting to behave like one of those troublesome apprentices from the Minrathous Circle that he used to take on field trips!  
  
'Right then!' the Herald announces, getting slowly to her feet and picking the thawing lumps of snow out of the folds and creases of her clothing. 'We are gonna make it in no time!'  
  
And so, they set off again: the man who, but a few hours ago, wanted nothing more than for death to claim him, and the extraordinary little elf who is filled with cheerful determination to see them both survive. Side by side, they brave an endless chain of snowdrifts; more than once, one of them stumbles, and the other catches them before they can land, face down, onto the icy blanket underfoot. And with every strained, dragging step, with every bump on the snowy field and every blinding gust of wind in their faces, the dark line of the forest looms a little closer. At length, they are able to discern separate trees, bent almost in two by the onslaught of the piercing wind. And beyond the trees, tinting the stormy sky with a single stroke of red, is...  
  
'Firelight!' the elf breathes, clapping her hands together. 'Creators' mercy, I see firelight! It has to be the Inquisition, I am sure of it! Ooh, I can almost smell that special chowder!'  
  
She races ahead of the magister, as much as it is possible amidst all this snow - and then turns around and asks, smiling from ear to ear,  
  
'I say, Serah Alexius - do you mind if I sing?'  
  
'Sing?' he echoes, taken aback by the suddenness of the question.  
  
'Yeah!' she nods several times, her black hair flapping around as her head bobs up and down. 'I am just so, so happy we have not gotten lost - and besides, they are gonna notice us sooner this way!'  
  
'Well, sing away,' Alexius shrugs. 'Just do not expect me to sing along'.  
  
'Oh, don't worry!' she reassures him. 'Varric says I alone have more singing power than an Antivan opera house!'  
  
Having said that, she takes an enormous breath of wintry air and starts a lively, rapid rune that rather fits her quickening, excited pace.  
  
_I messed up tonight, I lost another fight,_  
_I still mess up but I'll just start again!_  
 _I keep falling down, I keep on hitting the ground,_  
 _I always get up now to see what's next!_  
  
_Birds don't just fly, they fall down and get up;_  
 _Nobody learns without getting it wrong!_  
  
_I won't give up, no I won't give in,_  
 _'Til I reach the end, and then I'll start again!_  
 _No I won't leave, I wanna try everything,_  
 _I wanna try even though I could fail!_  
  
She is ready to flood the forest with a few more rounds of 'I won't give up' when she is joined by an unexpected backup singer. And it is not Alexius. He is far too overcome by a whole swarm of conflicted feelings, ranging from incredulity, a haunting and embarrassing thought that the silly little song will now be stuck in his head like a thorn, and an urge to bury his face in his palm at the thought what the two of them might look like to an outsider; to some inklings of amusement, bittersweet recollections of similar hijinks pulled off by his son and Dorian, and, oddly enough, gratitude.  
  
No, the voice that suddenly breaks through the elf's upbeat little performance belongs to a far simpler creature... Or rather, creatures: before the singer can reach the next verse, her reassurance to 'try everything' is punctuated by the howling of a pack of wolves.  
  
'Fenedhis!' the Herald curses in elven, staring ahead at the single, unbreakable row of four-legged shadows that step out from beyond the veil of snow. 'Stupid, stupid me! The Inquisition folks are not the only ones who could notice us!'  
  
'Stop mumbling and stand behind me!' Alexius orders her, his voice sharp like a whiplash. 'I can handle this!'  
  
After the elf obeys, the human squares his shoulders and extends his arms in front of him, chanting a spell in Tevene under his breath. To complement the ominous cadence of his mother tongue, his robes flap in the wind, and as a ray of moonlight finally slips through a gap between the brewing storm clouds, it chisels his features into a frozen mask. Even though his once resplendent Venatori garments have now been reduced to rags, and his face bears the marks of weariness and lack of proper sleep and nourishment, this does not make his figure any less imposing. But feral creatures of the wilds are rarely persuaded by looks alone: the wolves continue advancing, almost a dozen of them in all, with their teeth bared in a hungry snarl and with the muscles under their shaggy coats tense like springs, ready for a powerful pounce.  
  
Just as the distance between the pack and its prey grows short enough for an attack, Alexius finishes his incantation - and the frozen earth under the pads of the wolves' feet erupts into countless jets of flame. Yelping in pain, snapping their jaws and rolling back their eyes as the fire scathes their paws and leaves mangled sores in their fur, the pack beasts scatter off in wild zigzags.  
  
The magister smirks, watching the wolves retreat with his arms folded on his chest. He might regret what he did as a Venatori, but he cannot deny that there is certain pleasure to be had in wielding magic in battle. The elf, however, seems to be of a different opinion; emerging from behind Alexius' back, she looks up at him, arching her eyebrows the way a child would, and asks,  
  
'Couldn't you... Couldn't you have used a spell that would have made these poor creatures... hurt less? Or - or just cast a barrier on us?'  
  
Alexius purses his lips.  
  
'Many of the spells I could have used require a staff to focus the energy,' he says, giving the elf the same haughty look he once gave Fiona, when he listed the terms of her people's indenture to the Imperium. 'And as you may have noticed, I do not have a staff. Nor, due to a number of factors, do I have sufficient strength to have maintained a barrier long enough for those creatures to grow bored and leave. If you are dissatisfied with my skills, perhaps you should have not been so eager to count me among your friends'.  
  
The tirade turns out harsher than he intended, and he finds himself regretting his outburst of Tevinter pride when he sees the look on the Herald's face.  
  
'I... I see...' she mumbles, running her fingers through her hair sheepishly. 'I am sorry... Of course... You have been through so much... It was really petty of me... I just - it's... It's something that I am used to doing myself... Even while hunting for my clan, I tried to bring the creatures of the forest as little pain as possible...'  
  
Too absorbed by her own fumbling explanation to really watch where she is going, the elf makes a few instinctive steps forward, in the direction where the pack ran off to. She is about to make one step more, when suddenly, an inky-black silhouette blocks her path, and a low, angry growl rumbles through the air.  
  
This wolf is bigger than the pack that Alexius has just chased away; its fur is thicker and is coloured a rich, raven black, with not a single variation of shade - and its eyes burn with the same cold and pure green as the Rifts in the Veil and the Anchor in the Herald's hand. Thus, its nature is fairly obvious: the creature has become possessed by one of the many demons that have spilled out of the Breach onto this longsuffering land. It would be a fascinating arcane debate whether this otherworldly being hunted with the pack before or has only appeared now, and whether there are any other wolves like it, still roaming the forests of Ferelden and Orlais... But it doesn't matter right now. None of it matters.


	6. Chapter 6

Fast as the flight of thought, the black wolf falls upon the elf before the magister can as much as utter a word of warning. She lets out a short, sharp cry, and tries to reach for her daggers - but the beast's bulk has pinned her to the ground, and none of her frantic squirming is enough to shake it off.  
  
Two rows of curved, yellow-tinted teeth click hungrily inches away from her face. They would have surely torn through her skin and peeled it off like a limp cloth cowl - but she manages to shield herself with one arm, while continuing to push the wolf away with the other. The beast's dripping jaws close round the elf's flesh like vice; she shrieks and thrashes, kneading the snow underneath her body into a slushy pink puddle. The struggle flashes by in a manner of seconds; what lasts far, far longer is the glare the black wolf gives the magister as it tears away from the Herald, her fresh, hot blood dripping down its fur.   
  
Akexius freezes, a peculiar tingle racing up his spine. He can almost feel the Veil heave around him like a curtain in a draughty room, its ghostly rustle pounding heavily against his temples. The demon must have sensed a better opportunity to become part of the mortal world than inhabiting the flea-ridden carcass of an animal - and it is ready to negotiate. Alexius can sense its otherworldly presence, his flesh crawling under the creature's unblinking gaze. The demon's voice gnaws at him, whispering without words, pushing his mind in the desired direction, inviting him to consider the possibilities...  
  
So far, he has been making this trying journey as nothing more than the Herald's tagalong. The moment they return to the Inquisition, she will be hailed as a hero, the chosen prophet of the Maker, a reincarnation of Andraste. She, who stood against the Elder One and miraculously survived the wrath of nature, will be welcomed back with open arms - and he, the forgotten shadow behind the heroine's back, will be made prisoner once more. If, however, he uses the opportunity presented to him, he might stand a chance at escaping. All of the ingredients are already in place: recently spilled blood to bolster his capacity for spellcasting; a wounded sacrifice (and an elf, no less); and a willing demon that, once bound to a new body, will readily crush all those who try to stand in his way.  
  
With an Anchor-wielding abomination (or at the very least, a walking corpse - if the ritual requires too much blood for the Herald to survive the binding) marching into battle at his command, he will cleave a path back to Minrathous, where he can resume his experiments... Try to bring Felix back... Perhaps he may even approach the Elder One again, and demand that help he promised in exchange for the Herald's destruction. If the vision of the battle at Haven is to be trusted, the Anchor cannot be removed... But surely, the Elder One would still welcome the sight of his enemy being reduced to a demon's mortal husk: face sickly-pale and distorted by the binding ritual into a bloated mass of putrid growths and bulging veins; body so shrivelled that its texture resembles a cluster of dead, tangled roots; eyes dim and empty, with the spark of life and laughter long since gone...  
  
Alexius swallows loudly, the mental image making him feel slightly nauseous - and then continues to follow the demon's lead.  
  
If gets his freedom, this might mean that what he has been striving so hard to achieve, what he has been dreaming of so fervently, could still be within his grasp. The time magic did not work in that 'dark future' - but what if it works in the present?.. What if he succeeds in travelling back through time, and arrives at the very moment when Livia and Felix's carriage was attacked - what if he, at long last, manages to be there for them, as he should have been from the very beginning?  
  
Who is to say that is not feasible - especially now, when he can consult a being from the heart if the Fade itself? During his previous experiments, he stumbled around in the dark, groping blindly for a way to put his theory into practice - but now, standing right in front of him, is a creature of infinite wisdom that can be his guiding light...   
  
Alexius presses his hand against his forehead; despite the bitter cold, his skin is sticky with sweat. The wolf tilts its head, as though waiting for an answer. The Herald, once again, tries to eel free from under the creature, but it presses its large clawed paw deep into the wound in her arm, making her gasp hoarsely, tears streaming down her face. It is this gasp that seems to clear the dizzying fog inside Alexius' head; the tingling sensation is gone, and the world falls back into place: the blood-splattered snow, the menacing black wolf, and the blue-eyed elf that was brave enough to call a Venatori her friend.  
  
His gaze still locked with the wolf's, Alexius shakes his head and makes a few steps forward.  
  
'Oh please,' he says, smiling wryly. 'Do even demons think of us as villainous clichés?'  
  
With that, he flicks his wrist, and the magical wisp of golden glow, which is still trailing after him wherever he turns, begins to grow in size, pulsing brighter and brighter, until it turns into a giant sizzling fire ball.  
  
Evidently startled by this development, the wolf leaves its prey be, drawing closer to Alexius. This gives the elf an opportunity to roll to the side, out of the magic's way. The fire ball breaks against the wolf's chest, cloaking it in flames. But unlike its demon-free cousins, the creature does not falter. It stands perfectly still, like a statue carved out of purest onyx, even as the flaring red-gold tongues lick at its body, eating away at its fur. And unlike the hunters from the common forest lack, the black wolf does not get covered in any gory, oozing wounds where the flame touches it. Instead, its beast-like guise begins to dissolve in a cloud of dense black smoke - and when both this cloud and the mage fire fade away, the creature displays its true form, one far more fitting for the spawn of the Breach.  
  
Tall, all covered in glistening greenish slime, with long clawed limbs that have joints like a giant insect's and with a gaping fanged mouth taking up its entire torso, the demon lumbers forward and lets out a shrill noise that ends in a low, throaty gargle. Alexius accosts it from the front, another fire ball hovering at his fingertips; in the meanwhile, the Herald, already up on her feet, with her bleeding arm pressed against her body and her free hand clutching one of her daggers, creeps up on the creature from behind. They strike at it together; caught between the elf's steel and the human's magic, the demon takes a few moments to quiver in agony from tiny head to clawed toe - and then, like the faceless wraiths in the cavern, fades into a handful of ash specks.  
  
For a few moments, Alexius watches the ghostly embers float towards the sky; then, he leans down, not quite aware of what he is doing, rubs a handful of snow between his fingers until it thaws, and splashes the resulting liquid over his burning, perspiring face. The encounter with the demon has made him feel far more unclean than being cooped up in that musty cell below the Haven Chantry.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring a cameo by Scout Jim - wherever Cullen goes, he goes!
> 
> (Just in case: Jim is the unofficial name given by the fandom to the random scout who pesters Cullen during certain cutscenes).

Despite the bite wound in her arm, the Herald still has it in her to perform a jubilant little dance in the snow.  
  
'By the gods, we absolutely destroyed that thing! Oooh, we make such a glorious, glorious team! I can definitely see where Dorian picked up all of his neat battle moves!' she sings joyfully, seeming to pay little heed to the magister's abrupt fit of cleanliness.  
  
When Alexius does not respond to her triumphant chant, however, her enthusiasm seems to ebb.  
  
'What's wrong?' she asks softly, trying to give the magister a one-armed hug. 'Serah Alexius? Did that demon hurt you?'  
  
'Not... Not exactly...' Alexius replies, evading the elf's embrace and looking down at his hands. 'Most ironic... One boasts to one's companion about casting magic without help from demons; one believes what one says, too, being quite a capable mage, if one does say so oneself. And the next thing one knows, such help is offered... under most... unsettling terms... And one almost repeats the same mistake one made when the Venatori showed up on one's doorstep'.  
  
The elf makes a small 'Aww'-like sound, and repeats the attempt to wrap her arm around her companion's shoulders - this time, successfully (even though it requires some balancing on tiptoe, Alexius being taller than her).   
  
'I don't know what that demon offered you,' she says, 'And honestly, I don't really want to know. I have enough Fade creepiness to deal with as it is - and it would probably hurt you to tell. But the important thing is, you didn't take the deal this time. And you shouldn't beat yourself up over considering it, either. I bet a weaker mage wouldn't have even stopped to think; he would have just been like, "Yaaay demon, sign me up!"  
  
Alexius closes his eyes, his lips twitching, and allows the elf to keep up the embrace for a little while longer. Then, he takes a deep breath, and says, his voice low and brittle,  
  
'Back in Redcliffe, when I cast my spell... I told you that you were a mistake... That you should never have existed. I regret these words now... And I would like to extend an apology'.  
  
'Goodness...' the elf says, through a touched smile. 'I forgot all about it! But... But it means a lot that you remember. I was not hurt by those words - you probably did not really mean them, being all Venatori'd and all - but I know that words _can_ hurt, and it's always so lovely to see that someone realizes it...'  
  
'Speaking of words,' Alexius clears his throat. 'This is starting to sound like another heart-to-heart conversation - and I can take only so many of those at a time. I propose that I switch to something that is more of my forte... Like treating that wound of yours'.  
  
'Sure!' the Herald responds, rolling up her chewed-up, bloodied sleeve. 'Still, I am glad we talk to each other like that... friend'.  
  
The corners of Alexius' pursed lips slide upwards momentarily, but he does not look up from the deep tooth marks on the elf's arm. If he did, he fears he would have gotten... distracted. There is a certain... feeling, which caught the magister completely unprepared, when he looked into the elf's eyes - right before casting his second healing spell. And the feeling is highly inappropriate, for a whole number of reasons. First of all, he just pondered about binding her to a demon, for Maker's sake!  And what kind of a vile, lecherous man forgets about his own grief and has... ideas about a woman many years his junior? True, they shared some... meaningful moments; she helped him move forward when he would have rather fallen back and submitted himself to fate; she showed him the ray of light even in his darkest thoughts. But that is not an excuse for him to act like some of the men from the Magisterium - those wrinkled gluttons who leaned back during the senate's recess and, instead of focusing on the laws they were supposed to be passing, boasted to each other, eyes filmed over with grease, about what a delightful little elf girl (or boy) they had spent the night with. To treat the Herald the same way a Tevene aristocrat would treat his wordless, obedient, submissive slave would be an insult to her dignity - a betrayal of her trust in him. It would be no better than wondering if she could be turned into an abomination - or erasing her from time.  
  
'Commander Cullen, sir! I think I see someone ahead!'  
  
'Is - is that her?'  
  
'I think so, sir! But it looks like she is not alone!'  
  
The voices come from the direction of the distant fiery glow - loud and hurried, calling out to each other among the trees. Soon enough, the voices' owners emerge from behind the swaying trunks, making the elf leap for joy when she manages to discern their faces (she also slips her hand out of Alexius' grasp and slightly distances herself from him, which is an immense relief).   
  
'Cullen! Scout Jim!' she cries, reaching forward to the two men in front of her. 'Oooh, it's so good to see you again!'  
  
Beaming broadly, she gives a hug first to the nervously giggling hooded scout, then to the Inquisition's commander (even though that unwieldy armour with an impossibly fluffy collar must make the task slightly difficult). At this point, a third figure catches up with the search party - the Seeker, sword bared and face grim as always.  
  
The Herald leaves the commander along and attempts to embrace her female friend - but the Seeker stops her, pointing at her sleeve, and then at Alexius, who is still hovering unobtrusively in the background.  
  
'Herald! Yavanna!' she says breathlessly. 'You - you live! But what is this? You have fresh blood on your clothes! Is that _his_ doing?'  
  
At this point, Cullen notices the magister as well.  
  
'Alexius!' he exclaims in shock, also reaching for his weapon.  'Herald - what is he doing here? He was not there when we escaped Haven! How did he - '  
  
The elf's initial excitement at seeing her friends again is replaced with a serious, reproachful look, as she draws herself up to her full height and taps her finger emphatically against the commander's metal-clad chest.  
  
'He wasn't there because you forgot about him! You all just ran off, leaving him in his cell, all alone and helpless!'  
  
The commander looks confused and slightly offended.  
  
'With all due respect,' he says stiffly, his fuzzy collar seeming to ruffle itself in protest, 'Our top priority was to get the townspeople to safety! If we had dallied in the dungeons, we might have ended up wasting the time you bought us. We would have doomed countless lives to save one man - who was imprisoned for good reason!'  
  
'What about Dorian?' the elf persists, shooting an intensely disapproving glance from Cullen to the Seeker and back again. 'He has just joined the Inquisition, and in return for his help, the first thing you do is leave his mentor, his friend's father, to die?! Why - why would brave, noble people like you do such a thing?!'  
  
'Dorian did not join the Inquisition,' the Seeker cuts in. 'We have not yet confirmed whether or not his intentions are as selfless as he says they are!'  
  
The elf throws up her arms in exasperation - a sight that makes the magister feel inexplicably moved.  
  
'Fen'Harel's fluffy privates - Dorian was the one who fixed the dark future!'  
  
'The future that this maleficar here created!' the Seeker exclaims vehemently, so occupied by the argument that she seems to forget about the sword in her hand (Jim the scout has to exhibit remarkable acrobatic finesse in order not to have his head cleaved off as the woman brandishes her weapon emphatically).  
  
'He did not mean it to turn out this way!' the Herald objects. 'The Venatori used him, took advantage of him - '  
  
Alexius steps forward, drawing attention to himself with a soft cough.  
  
'I thank you for your eloquent defense, Herald,' he says, focusing his gaze on the Seeker and the commander. 'But please refrain from painting me as an innocent victim. When the Venatori came to Minrathous, I had a choice. I could have rejected the offer to serve the Elder One, as Dorian did - but I did not. Regardless of any reasons I might have had, any beliefs I might have acted upon, I willingly made myself an accessory to certain... actions that I now regret. Actions that, even in a year's time, would have brought about only ruin and despair. Leaving me to die would have been poetic justice - but now, even though the... pain remains, I see that the Elder One stands a chance of being destroyed. By people who are not as weak as I was... still am. Thus, I place my fate into the Inquisition's hands'.  
  
'Right,' Jim mutters under his breath. 'Taking in shady characters just as we get stuck in the middle of nowhere...'  
  
'Watch your tongue, scout,' the Seeker says sternly. Then, she addresses the elf, her expression changing subtly (later, the Herald would provide Alexius with a helpful chart of her grim friend's mimics, from the I-shall-smite-the-enemies-of-the-Inquisition frown to the I-am-concerned-about-you frown... But that is a tale for another time).  
  
'Do you really stand by this man, Yavanna?'   
  
'He saved my life,' the Herald says, pulling back her bloodied sleeve and showing the Seeker the marks left by the demon wolf, which have now been reduced to faded darkish spots. 'And it wasn't the first time, either! If it wasn't for him, I would have been stuck in a cold, dreadful cave with a broken leg and rattled brains! Also...'  
  
Her voice grows slower and quieter - which gives her words more weight. 'Also, Cassandra... Please remember that, before we had all these adventures together, before we stood side by side in battle, before we took to using our first names, before you trusted me enough to talk about your brother - I was a prisoner too'.  
  
The Seeker inclines her head to show she understands. Then, she gives Alexius one last long, dark look, and says,  
  
'You can return back to camp with us. You shall be given a place to sleep and placed under supervision. When the Inquisition's future is more... settled, we will discuss your further fate. If this turns out to be another trap, I will behead you with my own sword'.  
  
Before they head off towards the welcoming firelight, the Herald manages to steal a moment when Cassandra is not looking, and briefly takes Alexius' hand in hers, accompanying the gesture with a reassuring nod and a small smile.  
  
'It will be all right,' she whispers - just like Felix did when the Inquisition soldiers took him away.  
  
'It will be all right - I promise, Serah...'  
  
Before she can finish, Alexius interrupts her, his voice also lowered,  
  
'Gereon. My name is Gereon'.


	8. Chapter 8

_Bare your blade and raise it high,_  
_Stand your ground: the dawn will come..._  
  
The song rises over the encampment, a powerful wave that fills the mountain valley and reaches to the starry dome of the sky. The chorus is woven out of countless voices, including that of the young female Templar that was assigned to guard Alexius. He watches her from the shadow of his tent, on the further edge of the Inquisition's sprawling camp: every muscle tense like a bowstring, all of her energy poured into adding her song into the mighty, swelling current of music. The pride and sense of unity with the other singers emanates from her with such force that it almost makes her armour glow. The magister, a dubious outsider who was begrudgingly allowed to stay, can only envy them all. The hope for a future ahead, which has only recently begun to stir inside him, weak and faltering, like the light of a tiny candle in pitch blackness, burns bright and pure within those southerners, as they stand side by side, having survived, against all odds, and lay their hearts bare in a resounding hymn to the coming dawn.  
  
The many individual threads of the song merge into a seamless, harmonious whole, making it hard to recognize separate singers. But Alexius thinks he can hear that single happy, carefree voice - the one that accompanied him on his long journey through the snow, the one that soothed him and encouraged him and defended him, the one that chirped a little song of its own when they first saw the Inquisition's fires. She certainly enjoys singing, that odd little blue-eyed elf who is ready to show compassion to everybody she meets... perhaps even the Elder One. Alexius smirks to himself, imagining how his godlike master would have reacted to being offered a hug.  
  
Presently, the song fades - or perhaps, he is beginning to drift off to sleep. It has been a most trying night - and judging by that dull ache in each one of his bones (it even sends off a pulsing echo to his teeth), he definitely is coming down with something. At least the Seeker deigned to allow him a blanket.  
  
'Hey Lysette! How are you doing?'  
  
'All is well, Your Worship! Thank you again for Haven - I... I was a little too harsh on you back there'.  
  
'It's all right! I heard what your Chant says about "false gods" - if you've been hearing stuff like that since you were a girl, no wonder the Dalish make you uneasy! But hey, we made a great team, fighting off those red fellas at the burning inn and saving Flissa!'  
  
'That we did, Your Worship!.. Do you want to see the prisoner?'  
  
'He is not a prisoner any longer - but yes, please! You can go take a break - don't worry! He is my friend!'  
  
'You say that about everyone, Your Worship'.  
  
'That's because it's true!'  
  
This little exchange right over his ear, followed by the heavy steps of armoured boots as his guard walks off to stretch her legs, makes Alexius open his heavy-lidded eyes. He is instantly greeted with an already familiar pearly grin.  
  
'Gereon,' the Herald says, sitting down next to him. Perhaps it is vain to notice such things - but she pronounces his name with evident pleasure, as if she were savouring the taste of fine vintage wine. And just like wine, it leaves a slight flush on her cheeks.  
  
'Gereon... Are they treating you well?'  
  
'One cannot complain,' he responds politely. 'Especially... under the circumstances'.  
  
'I wasn't disturbing you, was I?' she asks, studying his drowsy countenance.  
  
'No, not at all... I am just... worn out,' he reassures her, wrapping the blanket a little bit tighter around his shoulders.  
  
'I will bring you a healing potion!' she says, with determination in her voice. 'And while I am at it, there is also someone I want you to meet!'  
  
She flits away, light on her feet like a skittish doe, leaving Alexius to mull over her words, frowning. If that someone is who he thinks it is, the girl might be in for a disappointment. What meeting could there possibly be with a man who believed him, Alexius, a better person than he turned out to be, and who was so stunned by how low he had sunk, that he could not bring himself to as much as look him in the eye?  
  
The magister's hunch proves to be correct. Soon enough, the Herald reappears, with a reddish phial in her grasp, and with an exceptionally displeased Dorian in tow.  
  
The elf occupies herself with squatting next to Alexius and uncorking the potion for him - while the two human men glance briefly at each other, and then turn away, Alexius casting his eyes down and Dorian pretending to be interested in a non-existent speck of dirt on the collar of his robe.  
  
'Well, don't just sulk!' the Herald urges the younger man, handing the unsealed phial to the older. 'Talk to him! Please! You both want to, I know it!'  
  
'Hardly,' Dorian says, making a point of sounding like he does not care. 'I only agreed to come with you because I was wondering if this little trek through the southern snow had made Alexius any worse for wear. I find him still alive and well, and I am satisfied. I shall now proceed to be indescribably fabulous on the other side of the camp'.  
  
The Herald shakes her head.  
  
'You are not saying everything you want to say. Varric told me that you were very upset when you realized that Al... Gereon had not made it out of Haven with the rest. The Tevinter lost all his sparkles, he said. And you know why it happened? Because Gereon is still your friend! And now that he is my friend as well, I will do my best to help you reconcile!'  
  
Dorian stays silent for a long time - then, at last, he says stiffly,  
  
'Very well. I am not leaving... yet'.  
  
'You were right to shun me, Dorian,' Alexius mouths, fingering the neck of the potion bottle but not raising it to his lips. 'I... I have changed, and not for the better. The man who graded your research and discussed the future of Tevinter over drinks is not the same man who...'  
  
Dorian rolls up his eyes.  
  
'Oh please Gereon! I know you are getting on in years, but you are better than that! You got it all wrong!'  
  
He begins speaking in his usual nonchalant, dismissive manner; but gradually, his voice grows more serious - even though he still cannot quite look straight into Alexius' face.  
  
'After the tragedy with Livia and Felix, you displayed something that is quite an exotic rarity in Tevinter, especially in the glorious House Pavus... Genuine, heartfelt grief. I was startled by the spectacle; perhaps even frightened. And we cannot have the utter perfection that is me being ruined by something like fright, can we? So I... confronted you. Told you to get over it. The rest is history... Though not the kind of history I would prefer to make'.  
  
Alexius starts and looks up at his former apprentice.  
  
'You... You think you pushed me to the Venatori?' he asks hoarsely.  
  
'I never said that,' Dorian retorts. 'But who knows how things would have turned out if I had postponed my drinking and stayed with you just a little while longer? Maybe that Elder One disaster could have been averted if you had an impeccably manicured hand to slap some sense into you! But as it happens, disaster was not averted. Not entirely. And unlike you, I still remember how you turned that tacky dog lord castle into a nightmarish evil lair and started taking people apart for experiments. It is a whole mess of feelings, all coiled together like creepy crawlies under a rock... And I would feel much more comfortable if that rock was not disturbed. I detest creepy crawlies'.  
  
With that, he gives the Herald a very meaningful glare. She, however, is still far from discouraged.  
  
'You know, I have made so many wonderful friends in the Inquisition,' she says earnestly. 'But sometimes it gets just a little bit lonely... Because both Solas and Sera started flailing around like eels on a frying pan when I said how nice it is to be around a fellow elf.  It would have been so lovely to talk to someone...  like me from time to time'.  
  
'You think we would bond over spitting on southern fashion and reciting poetry in Tevene?' Dorian asks, raising an eyebrow.  
  
The Herald smiles hopefully.  
  
'Just a thought'.  
  
Dorian's expression suddenly softens, and he says, the left corner of his mouth sliding up,  
  
'Say, speaking of poetry - do you remember how Felix pinned that dirty limerick to what's-his-name's back when he paid you a business visit?'  
  
Alexius mirrors his apprentice's half-smile, as his gaze grows wistful and distant.  
  
'You put him up to it'.  
  
'I cannot deny the initiative,' Dorian says, 'But Felix put my plan into fruition with outstanding finesse! And he did you a great favour, too! That old vulture was hardly a fitting guest to have around the household'.  
  
'Yes...' Alexius muses, still nursing the potion bottle. 'The man had the audacity to demand that Livia and I use our experimental spells to assist him with finding his "property"... Which happened to be a slave that he had been torturing for years. Your and Felix's prank was the kindest treatment he could have gotten'.  
  
The two men fall silent again, each plunged deep in thought; after a certain while, Dorian flexes his shoulders and extends his hand to his former mentor.  
  
'I... I suppose we could try to do this... talking again thing. For Felix's sake'.  
  
'For Felix's sake,' Alexius repeats quietly, and grasps the younger man's hand, gazing intently into his face.  
  
Dorian coughs.  
  
'Right... Well, I suppose that is that then. Find me if you have a dire need to gossip about the quaint local customs. In the meanwhile, I shall seek out the resident dwarven author. If he intends to write me into an opus about the Inquisition, I must make sure that he uses the proper adjectives to describe my profile'.  
  
With that, he makes off, never giving Alexius a second glance. The older man watches him disappear among the countless rows of tents, and remarks, with a subtle, friendly irony,  
  
'Why, for Dorian, that was the equivalent of sobbing into my chest! You truly do work wonders, Herald!'  
  
'Yavanna,' she corrects him. 'You let me call you Gereon, so that means you get to call me Yavanna!'  
  
'Yavanna,' he repeats, wondering if that warm feeling caressing his face comes from the fever he is developing, the proximity to a campfire, or something else. 'Thank you... for this. He is still far from forgiving me for my betrayal - but... But one takes comfort in small things. Especially when shortly before now, one could not find comfort in anything at all'.  
  
'I am so happy to hear you speak this way,' the Herald says, with sincere feeling in her voice. She then nestles closer to Alexius and points upwards. 'Look - the snowstorm has cleared. Do you see that?'  
  
Taking a long, leisurely draught from the healing phial, the magister turns his face towards the pre-dawn sky.  
  
Where once the Fade broiled in a gigantic cloudy vortex, there is now nothing left but a long, faint ribbon of greenish glow. It ripples like light, silken cloth would, changing slightly in hue and transparency with every passing moment - an endless, mesmerizing spectacle of light and colour.  
  
'Solas says the sky will never be the same after the Breach,' the Herald sighs, 'But at least it has grown calm... And all we can see now is just a scar. To remind us what we've lived through, what darkness we were lost in, and to make us look forward to a whole new day in the light. That's what makes scars so beautiful'.  
  
'That is... surprisingly philosophical for someone so young,' Alexius remarks, turning from the glowing skyline back to the elf beside him.  
  
'I was notorious for stocking up books instead of vital supplies whenever my clan bartered with humans or wandering dwarves,' she says, a tiny note of boastfulness in her voice. 'And books are great for making your mind come up with thoughts of its own!.. But...'  
  
Her expression grows slightly anxious.  
  
'I hope my age doesn't bother you... I mean, here I am, trying to bring back hope to people - and if one of these people dismisses me as a child, that would be... a little... uh, disheartening'.  
  
'I am a little past dismissing you, don't you think?' Alexius says - or rather, thinks he says, because by the time his lips finish shaping the sentence, he can barely register the sound of his own voice.  
  
The Herald... Yavanna has shifted even closer to him, her face inches away from his. At this precise moment, the potion must have taken effect, for he feels the ache leave his body - and with it, the darkness that still shrouds his heart seems to completely dissipate, at least for a short while. In this minute, in the here and now, there is no pain in his world, no regret, no weariness - just his tender, openhearted elven friend sitting by his side, her soft smile now more than a smile, her warmth going to his head. If he leans in, if he submits to the impulse because she wants him to - will there be shame in that? Will they forgive him - Livia, Felix, Dorian? Will he forgive himself?  
  
'Lethallan!'  
  
A stranger steps into the circle of firelight - a tall, slender elf in a simple tunic, with a shaved head and a peculiar pendant hanging round his neck... like a jaw bone of some animal. Judging by the hints the Heald dropped in one of her excited accounts of the Inquisition's adventures, this must be Solas. His arrival makes the female elf jolt upright, smoothing her clothes and pressing her legs together, like Alexius' students back at the Minrathous Circle, when he walked into the classroom where they had previously been up to some mischief. She then looks eagerly at Solas, showing that she is ready to hear what he has to say.  
  
'A word,' he gestures to the Herald to follow him away from the tents.  
  
She leaps to her feet, as if pulled upwards by a string. Solas gives Alexius a polite bow, and the two elves walk off, while the human is left to take apart his own mind and find new transgressions to blame himself for.


	9. Chapter 9

The exchange between Solas and Lavellan must have been extremely enlightening, for shortly afterwards the entire camp is upheaved, as an excited announcement spreads like wildfire among the soldiers and the refugees and the former followers of the mage rebellion. The Herald has a plan.  
  
They are to head north through the mountains, to a place where a centuries-old keep stands abandoned, waiting for new masters to claim it and to turn it into a fortress the likes of which have not been seen this age. To many, the tale sounds too outlandish to be true, and its source (Solas' trove of memories witnessed in the Fade) seems far from reliable; but to many more, this mysterious outpost of a forgotten army soon turns into a real promised land, a beacon of hope that they ardently strive to reach, marching tirelessly across the boundless sea of white and grey, with their eager eyes never leaving the burning golden line of the horizon.  
  
For the first time in years beyond count, this sprawling caravan, mostly made out of humans, is lead by two elves. Solas moves forward with unwavering confidence, completely relying on whatever arcane knowledge he garnered on the other side of the Veil; while Lavellan listens carefully to every word he says and absorbs each of his bold, self-assured gestures, as he leans against his staff and points out distant passes between the cliffs ahead, outlining the path that the Inquisition must follow. She then relays his guidance to all her followers, not forgetting to put in a few cheerful words of encouragement and an occasional song. She usually does that while standing on top of a large rock, facing the Inquisition forces; and as she greets everyone before her with a broad smile, they cannot help but smile back - a sea of beaming faces looking up at her in joyful anticipation. Among those faces, always shoved between a couple of guardsmen's helmets, is the face of the former Tevinter magister that she now counts calls her friend. Only his countenance is not exactly joyful; most of the time, his features are clouded by the shadow of a certain thought that refuses to leave him be.  
  
He finally puts the thought into words during one of the stops on their journey, when the Herald leaves Solas' side (the apostate mage prefers to keep to himself, a respectful distance away from the main camp - out of an old habit, perhaps) and trots down the path to mingle with the recruits and refugees, checking if everyone is warm and fed and well-rested.   
  
She pays a visit to Alexius as well; watching her crane her neck and stand on tiptoe before she spots him in the crowd, he flatters himself thinking (for just one short moment of indulgence) that she has been seeking him out purposefully.  
  
'Hi Gereon!' she chirps, skipping towards him down a slippery white slope.  
  
The crisp mountain air has left a subtle touch of pink on her cheeks - at least, that is what Alexius mentally insists on. Because if it's not the frost that is making her blush, it must be the memory of that... silent incident before she was summoned by Solas. He has just managed to write that bizarre impulse of his to fever and weariness - but if she brings it up again, he is not certain if that explanation will hold water.  
  
Thankfully, Lavellan makes no mention of what transpired (or did not transpire) between them that night. And there is really nothing surprising there, if he stops and thinks of it. She has been spending most of her time in the company of her apostate kinsman, and from what Alexius has seen of their interactions, she seems to be rather in awe of him. Perhaps a similar spark will soon light up between the two of them - and in that case, it would be natural, and more than welcome. After all, even though he is no Dalish, this Solas is still an elf like her, and a trusted ally of the Inquisition, with no history of attempted world destruction, either in the past or in the future.  
  
While Alexius strives to convince himself that 'the silent incident' does not mean anything at all, Lavellan frowns reproachfully at the guard that is looming behind his back; after the man withdraws a little to give them some privacy, she asks, sounding genuinely concerned,  
  
'Are you feeling better? Did the potion work?'  
  
He starts a little and gives her a nod, forcing a sarcastic smirk.  
  
'Apparently, we Tevinters are a nation of greenhouse flowers. Cannot spend a day in the snow without catching a cold... Our version of winter is heavy rain for days on end'.  
  
'Aww!' Lavellan responds, her tone growing rather mischievous by the end of the sentence. 'I have to get you and Dorian to play snowballs some time, then! You have been missing out on lots of winter fun!'  
  
The invitation must have been meant to cheer Alexius up; and he does appreciate the sentiment (even though he has a hard time picturing himself partaking in local wintertime amusements). But the persistent thought that has had him so preoccupied is still there, and he intends to steer the conversation into a more serious vein.  
  
'Yavanna,' he says quietly, inclining his head slightly and furrowing his forehead. 'I have been meaning to inquire about something Dorian mentioned... In that timeline where I sent you - what you have come to call the "dark future", I think? What exactly happened? What did I...'  
  
The playful smile is instantly erased from the elf's face, as if by magic. She does not even let Alexius finish his question, shaking her head and blurting out in agitation,  
  
'No! Please don't ask me that! I already told you more than enough when I visited your cell!'  
  
'You told me that everyone in that future perished, myself included,' Alexius says insistently, even as Lavellan turns away from him, shivering. 'At the time, this knowledge was sufficient for me. Then, Dorian let slip something about evil lairs and... experiments... And this lead me to ask myself quite a few questions - questions that I was previously too consumed with my failure to care about. What lengths did I go to in order to appease the Elder One? What exactly will the Inquisition judge me for, when it comes to that?'  
  
Lavellan glances at him, frowning, and shakes her head again.  
  
'I don't know who will judge you - Cassandra, maybe? Or Leliana? Me, I just run around closing Rifts... But if it was up to me, I would pay attention only to the things that happened in the present. The dark future was like an omen for us, a warning vision; Dorian and I... well, mostly Dorian, actually... He made sure that it stayed that way. It would be unfair to punish you for what might have happened but never did'.  
  
'You apologized for killing me to save your people, did you not?' Alexius points out. 'That never happened either'.  
  
Lavellan draws a brief sigh, a gust of vapour escaping her lips, and half-closes her eyes. She could have told him, of course. She could have told him all.  
  
She could have told him about the Breach, which swelled across the entire sky in lashes of venomous green, letting demons pour into the waking world as if it were a broken dam, rupturing ever wider under the pressure of an uncontained, torrential flood of darkness. She could have told him about the ruined castle, half-sucked into the Fade, with scattered debris floating in the air above its caved-in roof, and sounds of muffled screams pervading its empty hallways. And about the desolate wasteland that spread out underneath the battlements, as far as the eye could see - miles and miles of cracked, barren earth, with leafless trees crawling their way out of its bowels, their twisted roots and gnarled, sickly white branches having long forgotten what the sun looked like... For there was no sun in that world; no moon, no stars - just the cold green glimmer of the ravaged sky.  
  
She could have told him about the prisoners that his fellow Venatori kept in dank, musty cages, their confines so narrow that, wherever they turned, they would find themselves inches away from giant red lyrium crystals that were bursting out of the ground and the walls, like hot, pulsing malign growths, eventually seeping into the helpless victims' flesh and dissolving into a mass of pure, hard, glowing crimson. She could have told him about the throbbing shrieks of the Chantry Sisters as they were being flayed and quartered by Tevinter zealots, who demanded that they abandon their god and worship the Elder One as the new ruler of the world. She could have told him about the terrified sobbing of one of the former rebel mages, who stood on his knees before his Circle sister, begging her not to hurt him, shaking all over and struggling with short, hiccup-like breaths. And about how the woman refused to listen to him, her face a chiselled, frozen mask, and pulled his head back by his hair, in order to reach for his jugular and to tap into a wellspring of fresh, pure blood, a source of power for 'the magister's rituals'.  
  
She could have told him about her Spymaster, hanging from the ceiling of a torture chamber with her hands clasped in metal shackles, her sunken eyes burning with a cold, steady, undying flame of old hatred, and her features disfigured by the Blight sickness, for she had been turned into a test subject in Alexius' desperate experiments, aimed, no doubt, at developing an antidote for Felix. She could have told him about Cassandra and Varric, about how their voices rang with an eerie echo, reflecting off the crystallized flesh inside their chests, and how horrifying their faces looked, ashen-pale and covered in a net of swollen red veins. About how they looked death in the face without a shred of fear, for they had long since moved past fearing; and how they marched hand in hand into the midst of a swarm of demons, allowing its tide to sweep them off and crush them, ripping them apart before the lyrium did.  
  
She could have told him about his son, crouching at his feet and whimpering at the sight of bright firelight like a nocturnal animal - a mindless, feral creature, a flesh golem patched together from samples of Blight-resistant tissue and infused with other people's blood, no longer capable of understanding how painful its unnaturally prolonged existence had become. She could have told him about himself, wild-eyed, jumping at the slightest noises, caged in his own mind like those hapless prisoners were caged in the dungeons. About how gaunt and grey and deeply lined his face looked, after what must have been many, many sleepless nights, wasted on frantic attempts to bring back his beloved child - and then, carry out his master's orders and alter the flow of time so that there would be no meddling at the Conclave.  
  
She could have told him about the fine crimson line that Leliana drew across Felix's throat, finally putting him out of his misery and demanding that the magister give the world back. And about how he cried out hoarsely, tears streaming down his withered face, and flooded what once was the castle's main hall with a staggering blast of magic.  
  
She could have told him about how he hurtled orbs of swirling green mage fire all across the room, not sparing even Dorian, his own apprentice. About how she was finally able to come close enough to him to lunge forward, her daggers bared, and burst through the vulnerable spot in the barrier that he had cast, striking him down. She could have told him about how heavy his body felt, resting in her arms, sagging down more and more with every passing moment; and how soaked his robes were with his own blood, leaving a glaring scarlet mark on her trembling hands as she tried to support his head and wipe the cold sweat off his forehead. About how just before his chest stopped rising and falling, he called deliriously for his son, sounding frightened and lost like a traveller wandering through a dark, misty forest, unable to recognize his own surroundings and realizing, with a jolt of pain, that no-one was coming to offer aid. And how Dorian bit into his lips to keep them from quivering, as he knelt down next to his former mentor and took the magical amulet he needed to transport himself and Lavellan back to the present - but only after sliding his hand down the dead man's face and closing his eyes.  
  
She could have told him what a nightmare the world had turned into in that other future, and she could have told him it was all his fault - and hated him for it. But she does not. She simply cannot being herself to attempt either. Perhaps hating him would have been the right thing to do - according to her mother, it is the right thing for any elf to hate the shemlen... Especially shemlen who would have sown so much destruction if that nightmare had ever come to pass.  
  
But she has always been so bad at doing the right thing, inevitably settling for doing the kind thing instead. And the kindest thing right now would be to comfort her new friend, not give him another reason to torment himself.  
  
'Yes... I did apologize - but that was different,' she says, after a long, mournful pause. 'I am still the same me; but you are not'.  
  
She heaves another sigh, and then adds, with almost a poetic cadence to her voice, as if she were singing a sad, wistful song,  
  
'There is almost four hundred days in a year. Four hundred days of living in fear and in pain, as your master tore the world apart and hovered the bargain you'd made over your head like an axe. Four hundred days of darkness. This much darkness breaks and twists people... turns them into things they themselves cannot recognize. I'd rather we did not go into this any further: it would hurt both of us far too much'.  
  
'I... I see,' Alexius says slowly. 'Again, I am surprised by your boundless resources of compassion. And again, I must take back those words of mine. Your existence is something to be grateful for'.  
  
Lavellan blushes again, and thanks him. If they were in civil society rather than in the middle of a snowy wasteland, he finds himself thinking suddenly, a bow and a kiss on the hand would have been called for on his part. Kaffas - where did that come from?! He must not let the 'silent incident' repeat itself!  
  
Speaking of which - here comes Solas again, about to interrupt them, most likely with a reminder that they need to keep moving.  
  
'Ah, I see your kinsman, Herald,' Alexius remarks, clearing his throat. 'Best not make him jealous by fraternizing with your prisoners'.  
  
Lavellan snickers faintly, slowly slipping back into her usual chirpy mood.  
  
'Oh, I am sure he won't be jealous - not _that_ kind of jealous, anyway! He might disapprove, sure - but disapproval has never kept me from spending time with all my friends! The Dread Wolf himself may snap his jaws at me, but I will still do my best to make sure everyone is happy! My favourite magister included!'  
  
'I imagine that you do not know too many magisters, then,' Alexius says, rather intrigued by his awakening eagerness to make friendly jests.  
  
'That does not change anything,' she replies, grinning, and then dances off to talk to Solas - but not before reminding Alexius that she will make him play snowballs yet.


End file.
